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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22797355">sustineo</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockinhamburger/pseuds/rockinhamburger'>rockinhamburger</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Schitt's Creek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Angst, Deep Art Discussions, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Consent Violation, Theories of Art</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 18:29:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,056</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22797355</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockinhamburger/pseuds/rockinhamburger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The bad thing about being a world-famous contemporary artist is… actually, there are many bad things. The clout-chasers and users. The frenzied hoards of tabloid “reporters” and paparazzi vultures. The pressure from interviewers, curators, collectors, and art critics to pigeon-hole himself, or, at the very least, be consistent enough for them to do it for him. The neverending demands that he ascribe an approved meaning to his art. The elitist club at the very top of the art world pyramid, which David has never been a member of, what with his postmodern, mixed-media, performance piece style of art that in equal parts seems to shock and disgust and enthrall.</em>
</p><p>Or, an alternate universe where David is a famous, reclusive modern contemporary artist and Patrick is the art critic who is interviewing him about his new exhibition.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Brewer/David Rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>126</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>443</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>sustineo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><strong>sustineo</strong> </p><p>Latin; endure, suffer, sustain, bear, support</p><p>-</p><p>Greetings! I bring you this Alternate Universe fic with lots of pretentious art talk (my jam) and characters using poor coping mechanisms to manage pain and trauma (also my jam?). Enormous thanks to <strong>musictoyourlips</strong> here on AO3, who kindly agreed to beta this fic and then did so very competently. Very grateful to you!</p><p><strong>Warnings</strong> include <strong>unprotected oral sex</strong>, <strong>implied alcoholism/alcohol abuse</strong> (but no depiction of sex under the influence), and a <strong>past consent violation</strong>. The consent violation is not directly depicted in the fic but is referenced throughout and is a significant past event in the story. Please take care of yourself and skip this if you're concerned. See notes at the end for a detailed explanation of this potential trigger. Always available for questions about this.</p><p>Okay, ciao.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The good thing about being a world-famous contemporary artist is that David is under no obligation to attend the opening of his latest exhibition. In fact, David rather feels his absence makes him and his work all the more alluring; Banksy and Daft Punk wouldn’t be nearly as famous and beloved if their identities weren’t shrouded in mystery.</p><p>The bad thing about being a world-famous contemporary artist is… actually, there are many bad things. The clout-chasers and users. The frenzied hoards of tabloid “reporters” and paparazzi vultures. The pressure from interviewers, curators, collectors, and art critics to pigeon-hole himself, or, at the very least, be consistent enough for them to do it for him. The neverending demands that he ascribe an approved meaning to his art. The elitist club at the very top of the art world pyramid, which David has never been a member of, what with his postmodern, mixed-media, performance piece style of art that in equal parts seems to shock and disgust and enthrall.</p><p>The other bad thing about being renowned visual artist David Rose is that he in fact <em>was</em> expected to attend the grand opening for his latest exhibition, which he discovers when Alexis shows up at 7:00 in the morning to berate him for missing the opening. (He’d ignored her calls all night). As he makes coffee, she prattles on for a very long time about how David’s absence could affect her reputation as an agent and his as an artist, and about how his actions could get them blacklisted from the art world.</p><p>From the lounge chair on his screened back porch, David sips his coffee and remains stoic in the face of her lecture, despite his desire to start screaming at her. He speaks with forced calm. “Think back, Alexis. I specifically told you -- after what happened, I <em>told</em> you that I wasn’t going to do anymore events,” he says firmly. “I was very clear. And I believe you said I didn’t have to. I’m pretty sure your exact words were, ‘an artist of your stature is above those events.’”</p><p>“I thought you meant industry events!” Alexis thunders. “I didn’t think I had to clarify that you obviously have to attend the openings for your own exhibitions, David!”</p><p>Alexis is decidedly unmoved by David’s inspired citation of Daft Punk and Banksy.</p><p>“Oh, that’s brilliant, David. Yes, I’m sure Hans Vault will love that. You were nowhere to be found at his extravagant red-carpet vernissage featuring <em>your</em> art, because <em>Banksy</em>. Yes, I’m sure that’ll convince him not to sue after all for disregarding the terms of the contract you signed 10 months ago.”</p><p>“Fuck off, Alexis,” David says brightly. “For your information, I had Max look over the contract before I signed it, and I specifically made sure there was a clause added where I don’t have to go to any press events to promote my work.”</p><p>“Oh, did you? Because Hans’ legal team filed a lawsuit within hours of you missing the event, David!” Alexis snaps, hands flailing wildly. “I’ve been up all night trying to fix this, and Max is waiting for me to call with word on how we’re going to respond, so I guess the clause you added applies to <em>press events</em> and not the opening of your highly anticipated exhibition. I am here to do damage control, and to salvage your career while you still have one, so you need to shut up and listen to me for once in your life.”</p><p>David is struck frozen and silent, humiliation and anxiety rippling through him. He can’t quite respond, which Alexis takes as acquiescence. “Good, I’m glad you can see the scope of the problem. Here’s what we’re going to do,” Alexis explains, ticking off on her fingers as she speaks, “You will graciously cover the cost of the event to make up for missing it. You will agree to an interview with an art magazine of Hans’ choice, in which you will rave about Hans and his artistic vision. Finally, you will offer to attend an event of his choosing to make up for this fiasco, which you <em>will</em> attend this time.”</p><p>David takes a minute to process Alexis’ proposal. Paying for the event is nothing at all; he has ample money to spare, and it would be better than paying out for a likely much more expensive lawsuit. But the other things… David swallows thickly and closes his eyes, turning his head away. “I’ll pay for the event, but I’m not doing an interview and I’m not attending any events.”</p><p>“You have to!” Alexis cries. “This is our only option!” When David gets up to anxiously pace around the porch, her voice softens. “Look, David, I know you’re still hiding after everything, and Mom and Dad and I have given you time and space to deal with it all because we understand. But it’s been almost two years now. You think if you just avoid events and interviews forever, you’ll never have to answer questions about it, but how is this living? You barely leave the house!” David bites his lip on the swell of painful emotion in his chest. But he doesn’t relent; he’s not doing this. </p><p>Then Alexis drops the bomb. “Hans is suing for 10 million dollars.”</p><p>David hisses through his teeth and buries his head in his hands. 10 million?!</p><p>“Fuck!” David shouts. His mind spins with possible ways out, but nothing is coming to the forefront. When he can see no alternative path, he knows he has no choice. Once again, his agency has been casually brushed aside. “Fine. I’ll do the event and I’ll do the interview. But I get to choose the art magazine.”</p><p>Within the hour, Alexis confirms that Hans has accepted their proposal and will be in contact about the event David will need to attend in the future. Alexis leaves without much of a goodbye, evidently still upset with him. Which is just as well, because David needs some time on his own to freak the fuck out.</p><p>The trouble is, Alexis is right. He’s been avoiding interviews and events so he doesn’t have to face invasive questions or the knowledge that everyone will be <em>thinking</em> those questions. He can’t keep it up for much longer, especially since hiding hasn’t made him even a little bit less miserable. Maybe the article will be a chance to mark Before and After, without the cloud of what happened hanging over his head and his art.</p><p>David stays where he is on the back porch as a storm fittingly rolls in, as rain starts to pound the backyard of his New Jersey home where he’s indeed been hiding out since he bought it last year. He leaves his home only to run the briefest of errands a few times a month, and to stroll his suburb late at night when no one is around to look at him and <em>know</em>.</p><p>On a daily basis, David wishes he could just get over it. It’s exhausting to be inside all the time, inside his house and his head, and yet it’s exhausting to be outside, in public, where he almost always has a panic attack and needs to retreat to the safety of his house. If he could just get over what Sebastien did and be better already, it would be <em>really nice</em>. It would at least get his parents off his back. </p><p>When she isn’t hiding in the wardrobe at home over some disappointment or slight against her, David’s mother comes over to warble at him about his choices. “It’s certainly admirable that you’re committing fully to the JD Salinger lifestyle, dear,” she’d said last week, “and we all understood such a need while you were in the midst of your creative flow, but it’s becoming a bit last season.” David had not reacted well to these words, storming into his bedroom and slamming the door like he was back in their house again, except that his bedroom was too far away from theirs to be able to audibly slam a door as a message back then. He hasn’t spoken to his mother since.</p><p>David’s father has become increasingly desperate to get David out of the house, coming up with any and every excuse he can think of to manage it. Just the other day, he’d called saying there was an emergency and he would be picking David up in a few minutes. The emergency had turned out to be lunch. David isn’t talking to him, either.</p><p>Of course, his silence won’t stop the two of them from weaselling their way in again in a week or two.</p><p>He wishes he could explain to the people in his life about the comfort inherent in retreating into the privacy of the home he purchased last year, a home that is disconnected from his life Before, where privacy was a luxury he never appreciated. His new home is brimming only with things he has sanctioned, and with things Sebastien hasn’t touched or tainted. David can’t say that for the world beyond.</p><p>When David finally manages to uproot himself from the chair and go back inside, the storm is still raging and his hands are still shaking. They steady only once David has downed a gin and tonic, and then he crawls back to bed to silent the anxious thoughts crowding in.</p><p>He wakes in a cold sweat some hours later, and takes his laptop from the bedside table to research which art magazines are the most promising for his interview. He knows there is no hope of finding one that won’t ask about Sebastien Raine, but if he can at least find a magazine that seems to be more reputable, it’s more likely that the interviewer will use some decorum.</p><p>Eventually, David discovers a magazine called <em>Current Contemporary</em> that appears to be engaging in thoughtful art criticism rather than art world gossip and salacious tabloid fodder. He sends Alexis a link to an especially strong article on the work of Banksy, that is fair in its criticism of his work, discussing his strengths and weaknesses as an artist. He attaches a blowing-kiss emoji to the text for good measure and smirks when Alexis texts back a gif of Missy from <em>Bring it On</em> giving the middle finger.</p><p>A follow-up text comes within the hour, confirming that a writer for <em>Current Contemporary</em> is available for an interview. David informs Alexis he will only do the interview in his home, unwilling to do anything of the sort in a public place. Alexis tells him to expect the writer at 12:00 pm the following day.</p><p><em>His name is Patrick Brewer. He’ll be there for an hour every weekday until he has enough for the interview. Please try not to be a colossal asshole, since 10 million dollars is riding on this</em>, Alexis texts him.</p><p>David texts back that Alexis should eat glass and spends the rest of the day cleaning his house, since he never has guests over besides Alexis and his parents, whenever they decide to drop in unannounced to check on him and annoy him to death. He drinks a couple of gin and tonics as evening kicks in and orders himself too much sushi, which he doesn’t end up eating because he’s had a third glass by the time it arrives and isn’t hungry anymore.</p><p>David can’t sleep, so he lies on the sofa in front of the television with the Game Show Network on in the background as he draws in one of the many sketchbooks he leaves lying around, wide awake well past when the sun comes back out to taunt him.</p><p>He’s jolted awake by the doorbell. David scrubs at his face and peers at his phone, and it becomes clear he’s slept right until noon, so it’s likely that Patrick Brewer the writer is on the other side of his door. David stands and tries to smooth out his rumpled clothes, and then he puts the near-empty bottle of brandy behind the couch out of sight and answers the door.</p><p>A man in mid-range denim and a blue button up shirt is standing there, but he’s engrossed in his phone and jumps slightly when David opens the door. “Oh! I was just going to call. Hi, I’m Patrick” he says, stretching his hand out. </p><p>David clasps it quickly. “David.” He steps back to let Patrick in, and leads the way through the house to the kitchen. “Did you want coffee? I’m just about to make some.”</p><p>“I’m good, thanks,” Patrick says, and David glances over as he starts pouring beans into the mechanical grinder. Patrick has a friendly face, and he holds himself with confidence, peering around at the kitchen with what looks like innocent curiosity instead of nosy intrigue.</p><p>“Did you want something else instead?” David asks. “If you’re looking for something besides coffee, I probably have it. Or I could send for it.”</p><p>David’s personal assistant, Lisa, is the only other person David sees on a regular basis besides his family, even if she’s only there because he pays her handsomely. She takes care of things like shopping for groceries, clothing, and art supplies, dropping off and picking up his dry cleaning and laundry every other Thursday, and running the stupid errands that David should be capable of performing himself but is too fucked up to manage. He could text her to pick something up.</p><p>Patrick shakes his head. “I’m fine.” When David just continues looking at him expectantly, he relents. “Maybe tea, if you have it?”</p><p>David nods and puts the kettle on to boil, then starts the grinder for the coffee. A few minutes later, after David inquires about his preferred choice for tea, he sets it down at the table in front of Patrick. His heart is traitorously pounding at the notion of talking to someone about himself, at the notion of an interview where he’ll be expected to talk about intimate aspects of his life and art, and he glances around the kitchen for something to do to calm his nerves. </p><p>David clears his throat. “Would you excuse me for just a few minutes?” </p><p>Patrick nods, pulling a leather-bound notebook from his bag and a couple of pens, and a beige folder that appears to hold a sheaf of paper about half an inch thick, placing all of it and his phone down on the table. David escapes without another look.</p><p>In his bedroom, David quickly changes, not especially concerned about how a full change of clothes will be perceived; if anything, it will fit the public image of David as an attention-seeking whore. David brushes his teeth and washes his face, then heads back out into the kitchen.</p><p>Patrick isn’t at the table, but is instead standing at the door to the back porch, peering out. He turns his head when David comes in. “Nice view,” he says softly, gesturing.</p><p>David almost smiles, despite his nerves. “Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s actually why I bought this place.”</p><p>Patrick gives David a pleasant smile, then returns to his seat. David pads over to the counter where the coffee in the french press is ready. Pouring his coffee in a large mug, David hesitates, glancing behind him at Patrick who’s doing something on his phone, and quickly pours a shot of cognac in the mug, too.</p><p>He sits down at the table while Patrick activates his phone and opens up a recording app. “So, as you know, I work for <em>Current Contemporary</em>,” Patrick begins. “I’m really glad you agreed to this interview. I think your art is compelling and worthy of discussion, so I’m grateful for the opportunity to do that with you.” </p><p>David doesn’t know what to say to that; Patrick’s expression and words are sincere, but David’s instinct is to be cynical. David has learned to be suspicious of flattery and kind words after being burned so many times by people both within and outside of the industry. He is especially reticent to trust a word Patrick says after trusting Sebastien Raine so implicitly.</p><p>“Thank you,” David says perfunctorily. “Happy to be talking to you.” He hopes that sounds sincere despite being a bald-faced lie.</p><p>“Great,” says Patrick. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to record the interview so I don’t have to write while you’re talking. I know it can be a bit off-putting to be recorded but I just find it allows for a better conversation if I’m not distracted writing down what you’re saying. If at any point you’d like me to turn it off, that’s no problem.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” David says dismissively. He has been interviewed many times before, even if it’s been a while. He knows the drill.</p><p>Patrick straightens his papers unnecessarily, and David notes the nerves this action betrays. He suddenly feels a bit less nervous himself. Patrick clears his throat. “So, I’ll ask some questions to start, but I hope we can just have a dialogue about your work and how you see it, and about your new exhibition. I won’t ask about your personal life, and before the article goes to print, I’ll send it to you in case there’s anything you don’t want in there.”</p><p>David scoffs unthinkingly. Sure, Patrick will spend today focused on the art, and then tomorrow or the day after he’ll make a go of invading David’s privacy, once he’s made David comfortable. Then he remembers Alexis’ text urging him to be civil and presses his lips together. “Um, thanks, I appreciate that.”</p><p>Patrick’s face shifts to one featuring a slight frown, but he activates his phone again and starts a recording. “Monday, May 18th, 2017.” Then he looks up at David. “So, your new exhibition is called <em>Violatio</em>, and it’s being displayed in Hans Vault’s art gallery, <em>The Contemporary Vault</em>, from May through September.”</p><p>David drains a third of his coffee, mustering the strength he’ll need to speak positively about Hans; he didn’t like the guy before he threatened David with a lawsuit. David quickly takes the opportunity to recite the speech Alexis had sent him. “Yes, Hans Vault has been very supportive of my art in the past, so supportive that this time he wanted to host it in his own gallery. I’m very grateful that he decided to host my work for such an extended time. Hans provides a wonderful platform for the artists he chooses to promote, and he believes in their craft and… respects the artist’s process. He’s truly a visionary curator in the industry, and there’s no comparison.”</p><p>The words are difficult to get out. He only just manages not to grit his teeth through them.</p><p>Patrick blinks at David as he finishes his monologue. Then he reaches over and pauses the recording. “Wow. Is Hans Vault paying for that nice speech?” he asks with a smirk.</p><p>David bites back a surprised smile. “Not at all. Hans is a man of integrity,” David says very seriously. “He would never coerce someone to say nice things about him.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Patrick says, his tone shifting to match David’s. “But, in the interest of clarity, is there some particular reason I might need to include a paragraph lauding him in my article on David Rose’s new exhibition?”</p><p>David watches Patrick’s smile grow over the rim of his mug as he sips some more of his coffee, and feels his frozen attitude toward this entire endeavour melting ever so slightly. “No reason,” David says airily, all while being unable to curb his own smile.</p><p>Patrick nods with a knowing look, then unpauses the recorder and continues as if David had never started talking about Hans. “I had a chance to see <em>Violatio</em> the night it opened…”</p><p>David mentally prepares himself for the questions he assumes are coming. <em>To what extent is the work biographical?</em> <em>Why weren’t you at your own exhibition?</em> Stomach crawling, David laughs nervously. “I hear the food was excellent,” he quips, and then mentally facepalms at his inappropriate, nervous comment.</p><p>Patrick laughs. “Oh, definitely. I was really impressed by the spread. A beautifully curated culinary experience.”</p><p>David sips his coffee again to cover his amusement. “Yes, I’m certain the crab cakes paired nicely with the screaming room.”</p><p>One room of David’s exhibition, which he had dubbed the screaming room during planning, consisted of absolutely nothing except instructions to scream about whatever thing needed screaming about.</p><p>It takes a moment to land, but Patrick laughs again, much harder this time, and David finds he likes the sound of it far more than he should. “That was a treat for sure, watching the art world’s finest try to be performative about cathartic screaming.”</p><p>David surprises himself with a hearty laugh. “Perfect,” he says when he catches his breath. “That’s amazing.”</p><p>Patrick leans forward and crosses his arms on the table, grinning. “Honestly, I think this is your strongest work yet, which is not to degrade your previous work at all,” Patrick says. David fights the heat rising in his face, tilting his head consideringly and examining Patrick with confusion. “Your last exhibition, <em>Iunctio</em> seemed intentionally disjointed and fragmented, whereas <em>Violatio</em> is laser-focused. Can you talk a bit about your process, about the journey from your last collection to this one?”</p><p>David sips his coffee for want of something to do with his extreme shock at the direction in which Patrick has taken this interview. No one has really asked about his process before, even the most prestigious art reporters; they seem to think David isn’t high brow enough for those questions. They certainly don’t ask for David to talk about his artistic journey when they could ask, for instance, about the <em>very</em> interesting times he’s been caught canoodling with famous celebrities in L.A. or Seattle, or about the details of break-ups that have been splashed across supermarket tabloids. He’s not sure why they’ve always treated David so differently than other artists, apart from every single aspect of his personality and style. Clearly, he’s just not worth taking seriously.</p><p>David shifts in his seat as he considers Patrick’s question. He bites down on one corner of his mouth, then carefully responds, “My process… I suppose I see my process as a…” here, he looks up at Patrick’s engaged and open expression and immediately leans on self-deprecation. “This is probably very pretentious and fake deep, but I can only really think of a metaphor for my process.”</p><p>Patrick shrugs. “Maybe it’s pretentious. But I haven’t met an artist who could describe their process without a metaphor.”</p><p>David can’t stand how much he’s enjoying this conversation already. He can’t sit still. There’s something, suddenly, about Patrick’s kindness and open interest that’s making David even more nervous than he already was about the interview, so he grabs a sketchbook off the refrigerator and returns to the table, turning to a fresh page. He sketches a quick line, which immediately makes his shoulders less tense, and takes a deep breath.</p><p>“When I make art, I feel like I’m making my way through a winding forest. Most of the time, I get lost along the way and it’s basically a miracle that I made it through at all, and that I took something with me. I’m always trying to...” David pauses and sketches the curve of the tree in the back that’s grown around and through the fence lining his yard, David’s current muse. “I’m always searching for a path that will lead to some kind of emotional truth or… or sometimes hoping to expose a convincing lie that deserves further examination. Like with my first exhibition,” David elaborates, looking up at Patrick, who is watching David draw but brings his gaze up right after David does. “--With <em>Justicia</em>, I was hoping to find out if justice is possible or just a comforting story we tell ourselves.”</p><p>“Mmm,” Patrick hums, and David can hear the amusement in his tone, “I don’t think people quite got that one. I saw some critics saying it was about ill-advised judgement.”</p><p>David lets his humour out with a breath through his nose, focused on his drawing. He’s drawn this tree more times than he cares to count, can draw it from memory. And yet there’s always something in each drawing that surprises him, something he hasn’t noticed before in the resilient branches that have adapted to their environment, stubbournly refusing to be hemmed in. “Yes, and I’m sure they’ll force <em>Violatio</em> into its appropriate box, too.”</p><p>David hears the scratch of Patrick’s pen on his notebook and ignores the spike in his heart rate. “Oh, this gets at something I’ve been wondering about. It seems like you’re intentionally linking your collections, with the Latin one-word titles,” Patrick says. David concentrates on depicting the knotted root of the tree. “Would that be fair to say?”</p><p>“Am I pulling an Adele, you mean?” David replies with a smirk, meeting Patrick’s gaze steadily. Patrick breaks it first, and something about that thrills David to his core. “I mean, does it really matter if I’m intentionally linking them? No one cares what I call my exhibitions; they’re going to be paired and compared whether I like it or not.” David watches Patrick shuffle some papers. He must be preparing his next question, but David realizes he never finished answering Patrick’s first question. “Um… I was aiming for truth with this exhibition. I don’t think my journey through the forest could have taken me anywhere else. With <em>Iunctio</em>, I wanted to do something completely different from my first two exhibitions. I was hoping to be taken more seriously as an artist. That was a mistake. You can’t control how others see your art.”</p><p>“It’s understandable, though,” Patrick says.</p><p>“What is?” David asks, trying to recall what he’s just said that Patrick is referring to.</p><p>“Wanting to be taken seriously,” Patrick clarifies. “We both know the art world is keen to paint your work with frivolity. I first discovered your work when <em>Somnium</em> was being displayed at the Con Temps, and I was really surprised at how… well, superficial the critics were in their analysis of it.”</p><p>David’s completely forgotten his drawing for the moment. “You’ve been following my work since then?” Since his second exhibition? That was seven years ago!</p><p>Patrick looks slightly amused. “Is that surprising? Anyone in the art world worth their salt is following your work. Hey, I don’t know how to break this to you, but you’re, like, really famous.”</p><p>David flushes and splutters. “Well, I - I didn’t know I’d be talking to - to someone who actually knew my work. I figured you’d just done the usual research people like you do for these things.”</p><p>“People like me?” Patrick says in a teasing tone.</p><p>“Writers, interviewers, I don’t know,” David says, all staccato bursts. “I didn’t think I’d be talking to a - a <em>fan</em> or whatever.”</p><p>“Did I say fan?” Patrick says with an infuriating smile. “Pretty sure I said I’m following your work, but I don’t recall saying anything about being a fan of it.”</p><p>David gawps at him. The nerve! “Actually, I recall something about my work being ‘compelling’ and ‘worthy of discussion,’ as a matter of fact,” David volleys back.</p><p>“Huh, maybe I don’t need to record this interview after all, if you can repeat verbatim what’s been said. Also not sure those descriptions of your work are synonymous with admiration, but…” Patrick shrugs, eyes alight with amusement.</p><p>“Okay, you’re very snippy,” David says crisply, trying not to smile.</p><p>Patrick laughs. “You know, they say never meet your heroes; they might call you snippy, apparently.”</p><p>David ducks his head, rattled. The banter is revitalizing. Patrick is a conversation partner who, clearly, can match him toe to toe. It’s something he’s been missing for a long time. Come to think of it, he’s not sure he’s ever had it before. </p><p>“Aren’t you supposed to be interviewing me?” he snarks lightly. “I haven’t heard a question in a while…”</p><p>Patrick raises an eyebrow. “Well, another cup of tea might inspire one.”</p><p>David makes Patrick another tea, spluttering again at the sheer audacity of this snippy writer. Who is funny and charming, and that just won’t do. It’s a bad idea to get too comfortable with someone who is here expressly to get the goods on David Rose and his sordid life.</p><p>Equipped with another cup of coffee, David returns to the table with renewed composure and walls firmly up.</p><p>“You were talking about your process,” Patrick says, his tone and expression back to professional form, even though his mouth is ever so slightly turned up. “And about the journey you made from <em>Iunctio</em> to <em>Violatio</em>.”</p><p>David starts back in on his drawing again, thinking about where he’d left off. “Right. Like I said, with <em>Iunctio</em>, I was too conscious of the spectator. I went for authenticity with <em>Violatio</em>. Well, as much as any attempt at authentic representation in art can really be accomplished. Ultimately, I wanted to make art that interested me first and let go of worrying about what everyone else might see when they look at it.”</p><p>Patrick’s eyes seem to light up, but maybe it’s just the way the sun from the back porch is hitting him. “That’s key, isn’t it? And it seems to get at the question of how to make art without the spectator influencing the creation…”</p><p>“Which is impossible to do,” David responds, and Patrick’s eyes flash with recognition and excitement. No way that’s a trick of the light.</p><p>“Right,” says Patrick, and his voice is eager, “but I thought <em>Iunctio</em> pretty deftly captured the relationship between artist and spectator, so I’m not sure it read as inauthentic. Actually, could I ask some questions about that exhibition? I know we’re meant to be discussing <em>Violatio</em>, but maybe we could circle back?”</p><p>David nods, deeply mystified. This is the first interviewer he’s met who knows his work like this, has done his homework. “Sure.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Patrick says, like he’s actually grateful. “What ideas were you interacting with at the time that brought the concept of the artist-spectator forward for you? It’s a big topic, and it can get sort of cerebral and nebulous sometimes…”</p><p>David smiles and suppresses a shiver. God, talking like this with another person, about art and ideas… it’s intoxicating. And there’s something about the easy flow he can feel between them that makes David want to disregard his careful plans about how to approach this interview.</p><p>Patrick is extremely good at this. David needs to be very careful.</p><p>“Duchamp got me thinking about it, which I’m sure will not shock you,” David says, smirking. Patrick laughs. “He said that both artist and spectator are necessary for the creation of art. So much of contemporary art exhibition is about subverting that relationship so that the spectator is invited to be part of making the art. It’s about blurring the lines between artist and viewer. Which is super compelling! I fleshed it out in <em>Iunctio</em> but there were tinges of my interest in that idea even in <em>Somnium</em>.”</p><p>“The Money Man?” Patrick asks, and David nods, amazed. Patrick really knows his work. “God, I loved that. Giving away money in exchange for affectionate words. The night I went, the man was sobbing and begging on his knees. I thought it was very effective. There were people taking the money without giving any affection, people avoiding him, people trying to refuse the money but still give the affectionate words.”</p><p>David wiggles with happiness at this news from Patrick. “See, now why didn’t any of the critics mention that? It was all, ‘David Rose’s critique of the transactional nature of love’. I was so pissed!”</p><p>Patrick laughs. “Because they went broad?”</p><p>“Yeah,” David says fervently. “I thought it was so obvious, I figured people would go the other way and say I was being too autobiographical. I mean, to say it was autobiographical would be missing the mark, too. But, like, it wasn’t meant to be a commentary on class or my fucked up childhood, even if it is those things for some people. It was - the point was…” David pauses, trying to collect his thoughts.</p><p>And Patrick, incredibly, finishes the thought for him. “The point was that the art would change and evolve depending on whoever the spectator was,” he says.</p><p>David stares, heart pounding. He takes a sip of his coffee, overwhelmed and needing to hide, then says, “Exactly.”</p><p>There’s what feels like a reverent silence in the wake of this, and then the spell breaks as Patrick looks down at his phone and checks the time. “Oh, wow, time’s flying. Tomorrow again at noon work for you?”</p><p>David agrees and sees Patrick to the door. When he’s gone, David sags against the door and tries valiantly to ignore that his cock is hard.</p><p>David has had sex in the last two years, always with Tinder and Grindr randoms. He usually seeks it out every 3-4 months, which is about as long as David can go without a mutual orgasm. It’s all very perfunctory, though, quick and almost clinical. It’s always general and physical because that’s safe.</p><p>It’s not safe to be harbouring any sort of interest in the man who will soon be asking him questions about Sebastien Raine.</p><p>The fact that David wants Patrick, that he’s even considering it is enough to make David’s hands shake so much he heads straight for the liquor cabinet and to bed.</p><p>David’s ready for Patrick this time around, at precisely noon and dressed in his baggiest clothes. He needs to be on guard for the turn, the moment that Patrick angles for the stuff that will really get his article some clicks. He also needs to remind himself that he does not care if Patrick finds him attractive.</p><p>When a quarter of an hour passes with no sign of Patrick, David wonders if he heard wrong. Had Patrick said 2:00? But a text arrives from Patrick a few minutes later, reading <em>Sorry, I’m on my way!</em></p><p>When the doorbell rings about half an hour later, Patrick’s dressed in a different but basically identical blue button-down and more mid-range denim. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” he says in a rush as soon as he’s in the door. He’s out of breath, like he ran to the door from his beat-up looking Toyota Corolla out front. “My car wouldn’t start and I needed to get my neighbour to use his jumper cables. This is so unprofessional, I’m sorry.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” David says reassuringly.</p><p>“No, it’s not,” Patrick replies firmly. David raises his eyebrows, watching Patrick run agitated hands through his hair. “I’m usually more in control of this kind of thing. It’s so unprofessional to be late for an interview.”</p><p>David shakes his head, intrigued by this interestingly rattled side of Patrick the writer he’s getting to see. “Oh-kay,” he says definitively, clapping his hands together once. “I know it’s hard to tell what with my whole,” he gestures to himself, “but if you’re looking for professional, you’re not gonna get it from me. Besides, artists are late by profession. If we were doing this interview anywhere else, I literally wouldn’t have come, so I’m not gonna fault you for being late because of car troubles.” Patrick looks like he’s going to continue arguing and apologizing (he’s quite obviously Canadian), so David waves a finger at him. “Nuh-uh. Sit down on the couch and I’ll bring you a tea.”</p><p>In a few minutes, David returns with their drinks and sits in the squashy armchair that’s perpendicular to the couch. “Thanks,” Patrick says softly, and something in his face communicates surprise and vulnerability. “I just hate that I kept you waiting.  This is a really important interview, especially considering you were gracious enough to do it at all. And the fact that you choose our magazine? God, all of my coworkers would have killed to do this interview, and there is no way they would have been late.”</p><p>David tries not to let these words make his head too big. “Hmm, maybe you could say more about how much everyone’s dying to interview me, to make up for being late?” he jokes lightly. Patrick laughs, but it seems strained, like he’s still bothered. “Honestly, Patrick, I don’t care that you were late. But, um, that’s exciting, I imagine? That you got the interview, I mean?”</p><p>Patrick lets out a breath. “It’s going to be my first feature article,” he says quietly, like it’s a confession. “It feels like all the hard work might be paying off. I… blew up my life six years ago. I was going to get married and have kids and embrace that nice middle-class lifestyle, and then…” Patrick hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck furiously, “then I realized I was - that I’m gay. I came so close to choosing a life that would have made me very unhappy, because that’s how little I really knew myself.”</p><p>David holds his breath, shocked at the emotional turn this conversation has taken. There’s no recording device or notebook out; there’s just the two of them and their rapidly cooling drinks. David doesn’t say anything.</p><p>“I’ve always liked art, though,” Patrick continues. “Especially abstract art. I liked that I could look at a painting and have no idea what it meant, but if I looked a little deeper there was even more meaning than I could possibly imagine. Which is so obviously a very bad metaphor.” Their eyes meet, and David smiles. He feels a warmth spreading through him when Patrick smiles back. Then Patrick shrugs. “So, yeah, six years ago I moved to the most expensive city in the world and quit my reliable job as a business consultant to be an art critic, like that’s a smart thing to do.”</p><p>David sips his coffee, mirroring Patrick’s shrug. “You’re talking about smart life choices to someone who decided to become an artist. Granted, I had my way paved for me in solid gold, so it wasn’t risky for me, like it was for you.”</p><p>Patrick arches an eyebrow at him. “I’m kind of surprised to hear you say that.”</p><p>“You are?” David marvels. “What part of it is surprising?” As David speaks, his heart starts to pound and his words pour out of him like he’s been holding them in and they’ve finally collapsed out from the strain. “I grew up with insanely wealthy parents. I never had to worry about where my next meal was coming from or how I’d pay my bills. I dropped out of NYU because it was ‘too stifling’ and made shitty art in the sleaziest places I could find. My parents had connections and paid for my first exhibition. Pursuing art as a career has cost me nothing. I didn’t have to struggle for my art. I didn’t have to suffer, so as soon as I had my own fame and my own money, which wouldn’t belong to me if not for my parents’ fame and money, I made sure that I suffered as much as possible so that would make it all meaningful.”</p><p>Patrick looks shocked. “Wow. That’s… really introspective. It’s also an extremely uncharitable view of yourself that I really don’t think you deserve.”</p><p>“What?” David sneers. “It’s not like I don’t deserve my reputation as a shallow, entitled, conceited, corporate, drug- and sex-fueled hack that didn’t have to earn my success.”</p><p>Patrick drains his mug of its tea and taps it down on to the table a little forcefully. “Yeah, well, they’ve always been wildly off the mark, there. They only look at the surface image.”</p><p>A lump forms in David’s throat, and his emotional response feels wrong and bad; the idea that he should feel bad for himself for even a second makes him want to lash out. His patience utterly deserts him. “Okay, you know what? You don’t know me at all, actually, so you definitely don’t know if they’re right about me. I thought we were going to talk about my art.”</p><p>He has half a mind to cancel the interview; he doesn’t like feeling so exposed and vulnerable, or that Patrick has the power to make him feel like this. And they’ve only known each other the equivalent of a couple of hours.</p><p>Patrick’s whole body snaps to attention, and he holds his hands up in a wary-looking apology. “Oh - I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything at all. You’re right, let’s get back to your art.”</p><p>David suddenly feels exhausted. There’s the lawsuit, and there’s Patrick responding reasonably to David’s mood whiplash and weird defense of his own awful critics, when Patrick was only suggesting they might be wrong.</p><p>“No, it’s - it’s okay,” David sighs. “Maybe we can just, um…”</p><p>Patrick nods quickly and pulls all of his interview materials out of his bag, spreading them out on the couch beside him. David retrieves a sketchbook from the coffee table’s shelf. As usual, he starts from memory on the tree in the back, drawing as casually as possible, forcing himself to take deep breaths and return to a state of calm. He wonders if it’s actually possible that Patrick won’t ask after all, if he isn’t eventually going to move this along and get to the good stuff. Maybe, for Patrick, this is the good stuff.</p><p>David can’t afford to get his hopes up.</p><p>“Tuesday May 19th, 2017. Why don’t we start by returning to yesterday’s discussion of your newest exhibition.” David hears him, but can’t seem to focus enough to prepare a response, not when his head is still back in that honest exchange between them and the turn it took when David felt his skin prickling with discomfort over Patrick’s kindness. Over Patrick’s empathy. “<em>Violatio</em> had some really striking imagery,” Patrick says, presumably because David hasn’t spoken in about a minute. “I’m wondering if you can talk about what you were exploring with this exhibition.”</p><p>It’s a soft prompt. David sighs, wishing Patrick would just get it over with and fucking ask already, so they can end the farce that this interview is in any way about David’s art. His brain feels like it’s whirring between rampant mistrust and fear, and a gut feeling of trust that he can talk to this virtual stranger about the very things he shouldn’t want to talk about, not if he has even an ounce of self-preservation left in him. </p><p>“Weren’t we talking yesterday about the futility of doing this?” David asks, deflecting.</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>David tries to make his expression as judgemental as he can when he looks up. “It doesn’t matter what I intended to explore. It’s up to the spectators.”</p><p>Patrick frowns. “Didn’t you say that the artist and the spectator are both necessary for art?”</p><p>“No, Duchamp said that,” David counters. “Anyway, Duchamp wouldn’t say that if he were making art today, not with the ways we engage in criticism now.”</p><p>“What would he say now?” Patrick leans forward so his elbows are perched on his knees. David wants to draw him. He looks hastily down at his sketch.</p><p>“He’d say that the artist doesn’t matter at all, and that it’s the spectator’s interpretation that counts.”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Patrick says with a skeptical tone. “That sounds more like Roland Barthes’ death of the... artist, I guess.”</p><p>David smiles grimly down at his drawing, fanning out the branches with strokes of his pencil. “Barthes was definitely an inspiration this time around.”</p><p>“Okay but I want to push back on that, then,” Patrick says heatedly, and David spares a quick, surprised glance up. Patrick’s silent for a few long moments, presumably organizing his thoughts. “I don’t think your exhibition communicated death of the artist at all. The spectator can’t do anything if the artist hasn’t made the art first. If you cancel yourself out of the equation, then why bother? What are you even saying at that point?”</p><p>“Whatever they want me to say,” David mutters, his pencil coming to a stop.</p><p>“Do you really believe that? With the way you ended the exhibition?” Patrick replies just as quietly. “In the final piece, which you didn’t name, the spectator is moved to examine their own voyeuristic curiosity and then forced to sit with the shame of it, to question their desire to gaze in at all.”</p><p>David is physically incapable of stopping himself; he has to look at Patrick. Their eyes meet, and Patrick bites his lip. David wants to bite Patrick’s lip, too. He wants to kiss this mysterious and sexy person he basically just met, who makes David feel understood in a way he has never felt in his goddamn life. David is torn between turning and fleeing, and running full-force in the direction he’s going.</p><p>“Oh my god, will you just ask already?” David snaps, a chill to his tone that he makes sure Patrick will hear.</p><p>“Did you think about leaving the final piece out?” Patrick asks instead.</p><p>David rears back in surprise. Why isn’t he asking the question? “Yes,” David confesses when he can manage speech. “I almost did leave it out.” </p><p>He’s going to ask. He’s about to ask; David’s sure of it.</p><p>“Why’d you leave it in?” Patrick asks, his voice hushed.</p><p>It hits him all at once, and David can only let out a soft, surprised, delighted laugh. Patrick isn’t asking because he’s giving David the agency to talk about it or not talk about it. The choice is in David’s hands. Abruptly, he finds he’s trembling, and he has to take a series of deep breaths to stop the pencil in his hand from shaking and to let his terrified body catch up to his mind.</p><p>Heart pounding, David scans his drawing for the next step, but he’s unable to see the resilience in the branches quite as well as he had the day before. “There was no point in taking it out,” David declares, and then he’s up and pouring himself a bourbon, not giving a shit if Patrick puts it in his article. He returns to the chair and takes a sip immediately. It does nothing for his nerves. “I knew that no matter what I made next, it would inevitably be seen as a response. How could it not be?” David demands bitterly. “My next show could have been a fucking toothpick on a table, and it would still be about how Sebastien Raine put a video of me sucking his cock in his exhibition.”</p><p>David takes a shaky sip of his drink. His head snaps up in abject shock when Patrick moves to turn off the recording. Patrick looks… like David feels. Worn out, exhausted, weary, upset. Why does he look like that? David’s thrown by it. He takes another, agitated sip of his drink. He can tell from the quiet on Patrick’s end that Patrick’s not going to say anything or ask any clarifying questions. </p><p>David gets to decide.</p><p>“At first, I was disgusted with and ashamed of myself,” David murmurs, “like <em>I’d</em> done something wrong. If I had put out an exhibition in those first six months or so, disgust and shame and self-loathing would have been the primary themes.” As David speaks, he feels a strange sensation he hasn’t felt in a long time: catharsis. “Soon came the anger. The exhibition could’ve been about that for a long time. About anger so strong it could rip out trees. Eventually I landed on where I am now: indignation. Fuck Sebastien Raine and fuck ‘em all. <em>You</em> feel the shame.”</p><p>Patrick’s eyes are wide and his mouth is slightly ajar from what David imagines is shock. David stands, putting the sketchbook and the drink on the coffee table. “Do you want to see the piece I left out?”</p><p>Patrick freezes. “Seriously?”</p><p>David doesn’t answer with words, moving instead to the room where he keeps his pieces, past and present. He can hear Patrick trailing him. David pushes open the door to his workspace and walks in, then stands before the painting he’d decided not to include in this exhibition.</p><p>Patrick’s sharp intake of breath is deeply satisfying. “<em>God</em>,” Patrick says, with a reverence that makes David want to push him against the door and bite at his throat. David lets the image linger in his mind as he watches Patrick take the painting in, moving to view it from different angles.</p><p>Patrick doesn’t say anything, just takes it in silently for so long David wonders if he’s fallen asleep on his feet. No one looks at a piece for that long. But Patrick does, and eventually he turns his head and catches David’s eye. “Wow,” Patrick says breathlessly. He shakes his head minutely, as if in wonder.</p><p>David feels the need to explain. “It’s not that I was ashamed to have this in there. It just… it felt like it might be the next path.”</p><p>Patrick lets out a long breath. “It’s - it’s exquisite, David.”</p><p>David wants to kiss him. Instead he says, “Is there anything else you need for the interview?”</p><p>Patrick seems to come out of a daze. “Is there anything else you want to say?”</p><p>David restrains his emotions quickly. “Just that you can print everything I said, nothing’s off the record.”</p><p>“Okay,” Patrick says, his voice and his expression dazed and maybe a little shaken. “I - I’ll send it to you before it goes to print.”</p><p>But David shakes his head. “I trust you,” he tells him.</p>
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</div>The article arrives in his inbox nearly two weeks after those life-changing interview sessions with Patrick.<p>Since their meeting, David has begun to leave his house for errands. He has trouble talking to people, but he’s trying. He’s been to one session with a new therapist and he’s trying to cut down on the drinking. Max is putting together what’s needed to pursue legal action against Sebastien, since he’d been far too sunk in depression and anxiety to consider it two years ago.</p><p>It’s all starting to feel a little less bleak.</p><p>The article is a surprise. That Patrick felt David should see it says so much about his character.</p><p>He reads and rereads the final paragraph of the article, letting the words wash over him where he’s trembling with emotion. David lets the tears fall as he sits on the back porch after he’s read it, watching that strong, rebounding tree standing tall in the breeze. </p><p><em>It would be a mistake to conclude that this piece is merely Rose’s response to Raine’s unthinkable violation of Rose’s utmost privacy and consent. David Rose’s</em> Violatio <em>is an unflinching and moving examination of exploitation. His art is an invitation for the spectator to consider the difficulty in and necessity of dislodging the shame that is too often shouldered by the victims of exploitation, shame that should belong to those who exploit and violate and desecrate the most basic dignities we have. As he so often does, Rose makes the spectator confront their own assumptions about life and art, and how they intersect with and beget one another, and he does so with an aplomb that makes clear he is at the forefront of modern contemporary art.</em></p><p>-</p><p>David goes back and forth about it all day, then finally says fuck it and texts Patrick that he’d like to meet again. <em>I have one more thing to show you.</em></p><p>The doorbell rings just as David has finished putting the catered food on the table. Patrick is dressed very differently tonight, in a dark green sweater and dress pants that fit him so perfectly David wants to strip him out of them immediately. But he lets Patrick in and leads the way to the kitchen table.</p><p>They eat, and they talk. For hours. About Beyoncé’s latest album and George Saunders’ latest book. They talk about their upbringings, about high school and college, about sex and love and heartbreak. David feels so intellectually stimulated he’s half-hard the entire time they’re eating. Then they move to the sofa in the living room, David with a cup of coffee and Patrick with his tea, discussing everything from The Bachelor finale to the relationship between art and politics.</p><p>When Patrick laughs at one of David’s jokes, hard enough that he sloshes a bit of his drink on the sofa, apologizing and patting it dry with a bundle of hastily acquired tissues from the nearby box, David takes both of their cups and puts them on the coffee table. Heart hammering, he takes Patrick’s hands in his and looks Patrick in the eye. He’s hopeful but ready to back off if Patrick shows any signs of disinterest or discomfort, but there’s none of that in his handsome features; he seems to be holding his breath, his eyes wide and his lips parted.</p><p>The kiss is so fucking good David’s hair stands on end. He moans, fingers raking through Patrick’s hair. Patrick pants in the small space between their mouths as they part. Patrick’s eyes flit closed when David pulls back just a few inches, and Patrick sways forward. David kisses him again, and when Patrick responds it’s like liquid, his mouth and his hands on David passionate and intense.</p><p>David tugs Patrick down the hall and into the bedroom, where he shuts the door to the outside world and lets Patrick into his. He reaches for Patrick’s belt in the same moment that Patrick reaches for his. Then they’re pulling at each other’s clothes. They’re both stripped naked by the time they make it to the bed.</p><p>David gently moves them so that Patrick is prone on the bed and starts moving down, trailing kisses along Patrick’s chest, stopping to tongue and mouth over his nipples and delighting in the reaction it gets him. Patrick stops him when David reaches his sternum, cradles David’s face in his hands. “Hey, wait,” he says. “You don’t have to--”</p><p>“I want to,” David assures him, wrapping one hand around Patrick’s cock and stroking it gently.</p><p>Patrick shields his face with one hand and stifles a moan.</p><p>David smiles and says, “No, I wanna hear you. And I want you to look.”</p><p>Patrick’s pupils are blown wide when he drops his hand and meets David’s gaze, cheeks blazing. David cocks an eyebrow and then takes Patrick’s cock into his mouth. He hasn’t done this for anyone since Sebastien, so of course the memory surfaces for a moment. But Sebastien doesn’t get to taint this for him on top of everything else, not anymore.</p><p>David focuses his attention on the feel and smell of Patrick, lets out a breath through his nose. He stretches his mouth wide and chokes himself on Patrick’s cock, groaning deeply as the head presses at the back of his throat. David swallows and Patrick shouts, which in turn makes David moan and try to take him even deeper. He pulls off and mouths desperately at Patrick’s balls, inhaling his scent. “Mmm, god that’s good,” he rasps out, before swallowing Patrick down again.</p><p>“Oh!” Patrick sighs. David grunts and takes Patrick in again, takes him so deeply that his nose is pressed to Patrick’s stomach. Patrick writhes on the bed. “David!”</p><p>David hums and digs his nails into Patrick’s thighs, stuffing his mouth with Patrick’s cock again and again, the sound of it wet and wild in the quiet of the room. Patrick cries out and clenches his hands in David’s comforter, whimpering and tossing his head back. David looks up to watch Patrick come apart, and the sight is so delicious it makes David’s eyes roll back in his head. David ignores his urgent need to come and turns his focus to how good it feels to be doing this for Patrick, who makes David feel like they’re both jumping off the precipice into something new and exciting, something exposing and wonderful.</p><p>“Oh god, David, I - I’m gonna - I can’t -” Patrick gasps urgently. David moans and takes Patrick all the way in again, and their gazes meet; David sees and hears and feels Patrick crash into his orgasm, seizing up and arching his back, panting wildly, as David swallows Patrick’s come like he’s been in the desert in search of water.</p><p>David pulls off gently. Patrick’s loose-limbed, eyes shut, and still catching his breath when he lets out a post-coital moan so hot David has to clench his eyes shut on the wave of erotic pleasure that zaps through him. David slides across the bed so that he’s propped on his side facing Patrick, drinking in the sight of Patrick’s pleasure.</p><p>Patrick turns his head to face him. David feels suddenly shy, until Patrick pulls David in close and kisses him. “Thank you,” he says as an exhale.</p><p>“For what?” David asks.</p><p>“For being so vulnerable with me.”</p><p>David clenches his eyes shut on an impending sob and shakes his head. “Patrick…” he says plaintively.</p><p>Patrick kisses him again and then carefully, so fucking carefully, moves so that he’s propped against the headboard and David is straddling him. David shivers when Patrick runs his hands along David’s thighs. Patrick’s shaking as he wraps his hand around David’s cock. His voice shakes, too, when he says, “You’re so sexy, David,” and kisses him. “Let me…” </p><p>David lets him. He lets Patrick touch and kiss him, and he comes slowly apart under Patrick’s strong grip. His ears ring with arousal as Patrick says things that make him feel like he’s cracking apart but also maybe becoming a little less broken at the same time. “Thank you, David. You’re perfect like this. Thank you for letting me do this for you. You’re so good.”</p><p>As his orgasm rushes towards him, David slides his arms around Patrick’s shoulders and cries out into the space between Patrick’s neck and shoulder, panting and groaning, toes curling. He lets out a wet sob into Patrick’s throat, and he doesn’t let the shame or embarrassment in, banishing them in favour of ecstatic relief and joy.</p>
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</div>David glances down at the text from Alexis that lights up his phone, and it simply reads <em>David!!!</em> They’re a few minutes late, which explains the text. David tucks his phone away and clears his throat.<p>“You good?” Patrick asks, his hand steady and solid on David’s knee. “We can ask to go around the block if you need another minute, or…?”</p><p>David looks over at the man he loves. They’re in the back of the car escorting them to David’s new exhibition, <em>Resiliens</em>. It’s not surprising Patrick is checking in (for the fourth time in the last hour), considering it’s his first voluntary press event in three years. He doesn’t count the hob-knobbing industry event for which Hans Vault had required his attendance in pittance for missing the grand opening of <em>Violatio</em>.</p><p>David is grateful Hans won’t be in attendance tonight.</p><p>David laces their fingers together as the car pulls up to the MoMA. He takes in a steadying breath and lets it out again. “I’m good.”</p><p>It’s overwhelming. The chaos of the red carpet and the speeches and the room full of art critics and peers. It’s a lot. But it’s all worth it to see on display the work he has done, his favourite work to date, the best art he’s made in his career not because it’s important or pretentious or abstract, but because it’s a mark of how far he’s come.</p><p>Patrick pulls David straight through to the final piece of the exhibition, where no one has gathered yet. He puts his arm around David and sighs. “You know, I think I fell in love with you when I first saw this.”</p><p>David laughs. “I think I fell in love with you when you first saw this.”</p><p>Patrick’s laugh is hard to hear because David’s smothering it with a kiss that just needs to happen. But it’s there, filling David with warmth and light and love, like it did the first day they met. David pulls away just far enough to look at the painting of the tree in their backyard and lets the weight of his contentment expand and radiate out.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading!</p><p>(<strong>Consent Violation</strong>: Sebastien Raine used a video of David giving him oral sex in an exhibition, without permission.)</p></blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24074347">[podfic] sustineo</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillicide_snow/pseuds/stillicide_snow">stillicide_snow</a>
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